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 “God bless your honor,” said the man, whose accent betrayed him to be Irish, “and long life to you.” “How do you know me?” said the lieutenant. “Is it how do I know your honor?” responded Pat. “Good right, sure, I have to know the man that saved my life in battle.” The lieutenant, highly gratified at this tribute to his valor, slid a fifty cent piece into his hand, and asked him, when? “God bless your honor and long life to you,” said the grateful veteran. “Sure it was Antietam, when seeing your honor run away as fast as your legs would carry you from the rebels, I followed your lead, and ran after you out of the way; whereby, under God, I saved my life. Oh! good luck to your honor, I never will forget it to you.” A correspondent with the Army of the Cumberland, narrates the following incident: A certain wealthy old planter, who used to govern a precinct in Alabama, in a recent skirmish was taken prisoner, and at a late hour brought into camp, where a guard was placed over him. The aristocratic rebel supposing every thing was all right — that he was secure enough any way as a prisoner of war — as a committee of the whole, resolved himself into “sleep's dead slumber.” Awaking about midnight, to find the moon shining full into his face, he chanced to “inspect the guard,” when, horror of horrors, that soldier was a negro! And, worse than all, he recognized in that
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